Sanctuary
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Major Jay Hayes is enjoying his developing relationship with Lieutenant Malcolm Reed - but relationships with Lieutenant Reed are never destined to be simple!
1. Chapter 1:Jay

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

 **Author's Notes:**

 **1:** **The OC in this story belongs to 'Delighted', who kindly lent her to me. She is a cousin of Major Hayes, and works to treat psychologically damaged Covert Ops agents. Two stories which refer to her and to her relationship with Reed and Hayes can be found at Archive of our Own, entitled 'A Single White Rose' and 'Home for the Holidays'. It's not necessary to have read those stories for this to make sense, but they provide a background.**

 **2: Eagle-eyed readers may notice that I give Major Hayes the first name 'Jay' rather than 'Matt' as in my other stories. This is because if I'm setting a story in someone else's background, it's only polite to adopt their preference for a character's first name - so as there seems to be no definitive ruling in canon, for the duration of this story, 'Jay' it is!**

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Jay laid down his napkin with a sigh. "That was one fabulous meal."

Across from him, Malcolm nodded, finishing the last of his wine. "They do decent food here."

Amused as always by his lover's wry British understatement, Jay chuckled, and led the way to the vacant armchairs by the hearth, where they sat back to enjoy the comfort of well-made seating, cosy atmosphere and a roaring log fire.

He hadn't really understood why the hell Malcolm had wanted to drive almost fifty miles in the raw, bitter cold of a British January to this pub in the middle of Welsh Nowhere. OK, the flitter took no account of icy roads and the heater had kept both of them snug as bugs on the way here, but still it was a long trip at the end of a couple of hard days. The Englishman had been in talks with the people at a specialized metal producing plant over some changes he thought might benefit Starfleet's new range of phase pistols (the plant was already internationally famous for the quality of its materials), and when Jay pulled into the parking lot to pick him up his face had been printed with tiredness. At a guess, the people he'd been dealing with the last couple days would have looked twice as bad; Jay was familiar with Malcolm's fanatic attention to detail.

Now, however, he was getting the idea. Here, they were just two anonymous guys who'd driven in out of the night and ordered a meal. The room – of course; Mal would never, _ever_ leave such a thing as accommodation to chance – was already booked.

"You're supposed to be relaxing, not working yourself to death," he chided gently, hearing the faintest of low groans as Mal too subsided back into the cushions. "These two weeks were supposed to be shore leave."

"I'm on shore, aren't I?"

"But hardly relaxing."

"I am now." The coffees were set down in front of them.

Jay rested his head against the high wing back of the chair and stared into the fire. It reminded him so much of the one in Holly's place. He thought, a little wistfully, of the house up in Yorkshire, and wondered what his cousin was doing now. Hopefully well wrapped up; the forecast up there had said heavy snow.

He was aware, with the corner of his attention, of Malcolm eating the mint that had rested on the saucer and doing something with the wrapper, turning it in his restless, nimble fingers. It was no surprise when after a moment he set down on the coffee table a miniature silver-foil goblet.

"It's crooked," Jay pointed out.

"It's _tinfoil._ Of course it's going to be a _little_ bit wonky!" Irked, he tried to straighten it up, and it fell over.

Jay tried (if not very hard) to hide his snort of laughter, and received a glare for his trouble. "So of course _you_ could make a better one!"

In all honesty, the laughter had been more for the adjective than for the result of Malcolm's labors with the silver-foil. Even after all this time, the MACO just loved hearing the Brit-isms his lover came out with occasionally. Aboard _Enterprise_ he spoke with such rigid correctness – you'd never, ever hear the term 'wonky' uttered in the Armory. Not – to use another of his crazy Brit-isms – 'in the reign of pig's puddin'.' Still, even though their relationship had become an intimate one they were still intensely competitive. A challenge like that could never be turned down.

No, siree. 'Not in the reign of pig's puddin'.'

He ate his mint and smoothed out the square of silver-foil meticulously. From the other side of the table a pair of gray eyes watched maliciously, daring him to tear it by rough handling.

 _Perfect._

He removed his keys from his jacket pocket. Dangling from them was a tiny emergency flashlight. With great care he wrapped the top third of the square around it, smoothing and pressing the foil into position. When he was satisfied, he gently started twisting the free material, and as soon as he was satisfied he had a strong enough 'stem' he straightened it out and used his free thumb to press out the remaining foil. A couple of stray corners were folded over and used as reinforcement, and then he spent a couple of moments viewing and tweaking before upending the flashlight over the coffee table, depositing thereon a perfectly stable miniature champagne flute.

Malcolm immediately placed his coffee cup on it with perfect precision, squashing it flat.

Jay let out a peal of laughter. "Did anyone ever tell you, you're a really sore loser?"

"The few people who ever beat me – yes." The Brit retrieved his cup and sipped from it, his eyes twinkling.

"I've managed that a few times." He grinned slyly across his own coffee. "And I have to say I never heard you complain."

"There are occasions, Major, when losing carries its own rewards."

Hell, he was hot, in the well-fitting gray pants and sky-blue sweater. Jay imagined peeling him out of them in that beautiful, old-fashioned room upstairs, and had to adjust his position slightly to avoid causing scandal to any observant passer-by.

He'd been prepared to be unselfish, because the last couple days must have been difficult and the drive here sure hadn't helped, with good food and wine on top. If needs be he'd certainly have settled for just snuggling down with Malcolm in his arms in the four-poster with its mounded duvet and tartan bedspread, to fall asleep listening to the wind outside whining spitefully in the casement. But it appeared that Mal had other ideas, and if his always astonishing reserves of energy still had enough to spare, then Jay was ready, willing and eager to oblige.

=/\=

It transpired that Malcolm had more than enough energy to spare. It was late that night when the two of them finally sank, utterly spent, into the all-enveloping embrace of the duvet. The bedspread had found its way onto the floor at some point during the proceedings, and it seemed that neither of them had the strength left to go pick it up and put it back on the bed.

The room was warm enough anyway. Though outside the winter night held the land in a grip like death and the reeds at the edge of the river were frozen stiff, the Reed in Jay's arms was warm and relaxed, his rapid pulse slowing along with the quick rise and fall of his ribs.

"I love you, Mal."

He hadn't meant to say it. It must have been the wine, or the warmth, or the sex, or a combination of everything. Even as the words left his lips he tensed at what could be a phenomenal mistake; it was the truth (a truth he'd only recently admitted even to himself), but was Malcolm ready to hear it?

The pillows were as soft as clouds. The head next to his had sunk into it, so that only the upper half was visible. The one eye he could see had drifted shut, and it remained so for a few moments.

Then it opened slowly. He took what comfort he could from the fact that at least it wasn't glaring at him.

"I'm not asking for anything from you," he went on, a little uncomfortable under the steady gray stare. "If you think it's too early, that's fine. But I'm just being honest about what _I_ feel."

There was still no reply. But after about half a minute Malcolm hoisted himself out of the pillow, leaned over and kissed him passionately.

He responded, of course, for all that his body was so sated now he couldn't feel so much as a flicker of need. But though he enjoyed the kiss as much as he always did, he couldn't help suspecting that it was a diversionary tactic his lover was using to avoid answering.

Well, it had probably come as a bit of a surprise. And like any good Tactical Officer, Mal didn't like surprises. Quite probably he'd retreat with the information into his cave, examine it from all angles, consider his response for a week, and then produce it at the least convenient moment.

Still – at least he hadn't thrown a hissy fit. With the lean, naked body pressed up against his and the skilful tongue exploring his mouth, Jay was prepared to take the hopeful view.

The long day and longer evening were combining to take their toll. He could feel sleep beckoning irresistibly. When at last Malcolm drew back, he was too tired to do more than snuggle up and settle down. At least for the first half of the night, Mal was happy to cuddle, though by morning the bedclothes were often in an absolute tangle from his restlessness. Fortunately, Jay was a sound sleeper and was seldom disturbed by it.

"Feels great not to have to get up in the morning," the MACO yawned as he switched off the bedside lamp. "Can't remember the last time I didn't have to set an alarm clock. We'll have a late breakfast."

Malcolm was already settled, the duvet snuggled possessively around his shoulders. He mumbled something sleepily into the pillow.

The darkness of the Welsh countryside was absolute. There wasn't even the glow of a lamp from the flitter park to illuminate the window. But hell, thought Jay blissfully, burrowing in to spoon around his lover, it wasn't as though he'd need it to get a damn good night's sleep.

A second darkness, blacker than even the night outside, washed over him and swallowed him, and he sank into it, fathoms deep.

=/\=

The cold morning sunshine through the window woke him. The overnight cloud had cleared, and the level rays sparkled on a crusting of frost on the bare ivy stems around the window. Though the heating meant the room was warm enough, still the glitter warned that the world outside was even colder than it had been yesterday, and Jay for one was in no hurry to get up and go out into it before he had to.

The bed beside him was empty. He glanced at the clock: just past seven-thirty. Disgracefully late for a working day, but hardly anything like time to get up on vacation, and especially not when you were sharing a bed with a special person you saw all too rarely. Breakfast was available till ten, and although he didn't expect to leave it quite that late, still there was plenty of time yet for a little extra loving when Mal came back from the bathroom.

He yawned and stretched, and kicked the duvet to move it back into position. At some point in the night Malcolm must have gotten up, because the bedspread was back on top of it – fanatically neat, he'd never have tolerated it lying there untidily on the floor.

Still warm and comfortable, Jay turned over. Mal was taking a heck of a long time in the bathroom, he thought sleepily, and put an arm out into the space his lover had vacated.

It was completely cold.

The knowledge took a moment to register. Then his stomach congealed into a solid, icy knot.

He could have wasted time checking the wardrobe, but even as he sat up he knew the black holdall would be gone. There was no parka on the back of the door, no clothes laid tidily across the armchair, no shoes neatly side by side beside the chest of drawers.

What followed was just a rote that he followed as though living someone else's life.

The check in the bathroom – silent and empty.

The look out of the window, at the black running river and the frozen fields beyond it, and the bare woods beyond again. No sign of movement. Not that he expected it.

The glance into the lounge, deserted except for an employee scraping out the ashes preparatory to setting a new fire for the day.

The enquiries at Reception, where he was told that Mr Reed had summoned a taxi and left early in the morning after paying the bill. Too early for breakfast, too early even for daylight to have leaked into the sky as he fled the scene of the crime. Grimly, Jay ate breakfast; a soldier operated on full rations. While he ate, he reviewed his options.

The first, and most obvious, was to accept that Malcolm had never been in the relationship for emotional involvement. If that was the case, there wasn't much more he could do than to admit he'd made a mistake and walk away, leaving his heart to mend as best it could.

It was wholly possible that he'd misread the Brit from the start. He knew, of course, that the man was deeply reserved, which was one thing that had given him such a thrill when he'd finally opened up. Everything he'd managed to find out about Reed suggested he had relationship issues, but he'd managed to convince himself that this was just because he'd never been in the right relationship – till now.

Maybe that had been overweening arrogance that had now sprung back to smack him squarely in the face. Maybe he'd mistaken ordinary garden-variety lust for something it never could have been. Maybe he'd been just another notch on Reed's already well-incised bedpost.

Memories of the previous night roiled inside him, as unbearable as they were sweet. Fortunately he was used to keeping his thoughts well-hidden, and none of the guests at the other tables could have suspected that his mind was full of scenes that even in his pain were unbearably arousing. He'd thought them part of something real, something that _mattered_ ... well, maybe he'd been wrong. They'd sure mattered to him, but maybe to the other participant in them they'd just been moves in a well-rehearsed routine – two bodies using one another for pleasure, but touching on no other level than skin...

 _Bullshit!_

He'd been there and done that, he was older and wiser and he knew as well as he knew his own face in the mirror that it _hadn't_ been just a fuck for Reed, no, for Malcolm, for _Mal_ , because that was the name he gasped out at the apex of their pleasure.

So – why had he run?

He wasn't a coward. He'd chosen death by suffocation when he'd thought Captain Archer was endangering the ship by trying to save him, faced the dangers of the Expanse without flinching. God knew that even when the two of them had been in their perpetual dumbass faceoff aboard _Enterprise_ life would have been so infinitely easier if he'd been willing to give back a single damned centimeter rather than hold his ground like the stubborn sonofabitch he was. Besides, a coward would never have ended up in _Enterprise_ 's Sickbay as often as he did, and by all accounts the guy practically had a season ticket for the place.

Was it _emotional_ connection that scared him?

He was incompetent at relationships, by his own admission. Was that incompetence deliberate, an attempt to keep others at a distance? Was it something he actively cultivated, unwilling to risk the pain of committing to a situation he couldn't control?

That was more plausible. Jay paused in the act of drinking his second cup of coffee, and nodded to himself. That was very, very much more plausible.

But if that was the case ... what to do about it?

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	2. Chapter 2: Holly

Snow had been falling since early morning, tumbling down out of the sky.

The clouds had been piled like dirty fleeces across the shoulder of Pen Hill as Holly drew the curtains to shut out the gathering night. The gloom had hardly lifted all day, and now the dusk was swallowing what the hours of daylight had scarcely touched.

Wensleydale was a landscape in white. Even under the low-hanging clouds there was a faint, reflected radiance off the fields, and if the moon came out it would be a world of magic. A hard magic, brutal to man and beast alike, but magic still, with a remote and unearthly beauty. Maybe later she'd check. The forecast hadn't been promising, and the cold wind was gusting over the high moors and flinging the snow in flurries down the dale; the stark, stripped trees behind the house bore a silver tracery on every twig.

In the meantime, she had dinner to prepare – a rich chicken casserole.

The room was warm and cosy as she turned back to it. A standard lamp in one corner provided the only light, apart from that of the fire glowing in the hearth. Dickon the cat was fast asleep on the hearthrug in front of it, twisted over so that one leg wrapped his upturned, blissful face.

Smiling across at him, she tugged her favourite throw from where it'd been neatly folded across the back of the sofa, and threw it towards the armchair beside the fire. The light from the lamp behind it glowed on the rich grey folds of fake fur as they settled, ready to collect warmth to envelop her through the long, solitary evening. On the small table to one side of it was her copy of Dickens' _Bleak House_ ; she hadn't read it for years, and was enjoying renewing her acquaintance with the enigmatic Lady Dedlock and the odious Mr Tulkinghorn.

The kitchen was small and spotless. Bunches of herbs hung from the drying rack hanging from the ceiling, dry ghosts of vanished summer; the rack in the garden room was already crowded from end to end. On the sideboard was a vase of many-coloured statice, given drama by the dried heads of the Star of Persia _Allium christophii_ and sprays of Honesty, _Lunaria annua._ All had been gathered from her garden, a harvest of the days of sunshine. She touched one of the papery silver discs of the Honesty, running a finger lightly over its silken smoothness. Her grandma had taught her almost all of what she knew about plants and their uses, but it was Malcolm who'd taught her the Latin names of the flowers he recognised, these among them. For a man whose chief preoccupation was weaponry and explosions, he had a wealth of unexpected knowledge – but then, he'd once let slip that his mother was a keen and knowledgeable gardener.

Everything was laid out ready. With the ease of long practise, she prepared the meat and vegetables. The Aga was already warm, and soon she slipped the oven-proof dishes inside. There was far more than she could possibly eat in one sitting, but she always prepared several servings at once, freezing the surplus soup for future use.

When the preparation tools and work surfaces were clean again, she checked the timer, switched off the lights and went back into the lounge. In the chimney the wind was moaning, a desolate sound – it had gone around to the east. That was the only time it made that noise, and more often than not it brought snow. She shivered, hearing it. _Gwynt traed yr meirw_ , they called it in Wales: the wind that blows from the feet of the dead.

Still, the house had withstood well over two hundred winters and was stout enough to withstand a good few more. If the snow continued for a week or more she had everything she needed to withstand the siege, and good neighbours who looked after one another in the often harsh conditions of a Yorkshire winter. The cottage was battened down and locked tight against the cold, and she had a warm fire, hot food and a good book. There was a special sort of satisfaction in listening to the peevish spite of winter shut out.

She settled herself in the armchair, which was winged and deeply padded, worn and comfortable with long use. She was already wearing the knitted slipper-boots that could withstand any stray draught that might find its way through the cottage's stout defences, and it was the work of a moment to spread the fur throw across her lap and legs, tucking it in around her body. There was a knitted shawl of the same undyed wool across the back of the chair and she swung it around her shoulders, feeling the warm weight of it settle. JJ had knitted her both the shawl and the boots as a gift, utterly unconcerned by the idea that anyone should regard knitting as a feminine pastime; he said it helped him think.

"Snug as a bug in a rug," she said aloud, giving the last luxurious couple of wriggles to settle into absolute comfort. She had an hour before the timer's summons to dinner, and the tray was already set out and waiting on the kitchen table; in the summer she'd eat in there, with the door open to let in the smell of green growing things, but on winter nights you couldn't beat eating by the fireside.

The book was already open, the bookmark lying across the page. A strip of sky-coloured silk, _Loyalty's blue, a princely hue_ , embroidered with white and silver York roses. She laid it carefully to one side.

The story swept her away to a long-ago England, and soon she was absorbed in it. The cottage was quiet, save for the almost soundless _tock_ of a short-case mahogany wall clock in a shadowy alcove and the flutter of the flames in the hearth. Now and again there was the silvery rustle of half-burned logs settling among the ashes, but all around her the room was a haven of comfort and peace.

" _Eoo-oooooo-oooooooooooooooow!"_

The sudden wail startled her so badly she almost threw the book up in the air.

Like all cats, Dickon enjoyed his comfort. He'd been ensconced in front of the fire all evening, blissfully toasting various portions of his fur, and there had seemed little likelihood of his finding any reason to leave it till spring came around – except for the necessary excursions to the litter-box and the food-bowl.

Now, however, he was standing up almost on tip-toes, his back a frightened hedge, his tail inflated to twice its normal size. And he was staring at the door.

There hadn't been a sound from that direction. Certainly nobody had rung the bell, or even knocked – the sound of the chime would have been deafening in the silent house. The whole world was so quiet it hardly seemed possible anyone could be out there – and who would want to be, in that cruel cold world of snow?

But staying where she was while her cat howled in fear at the door was the least possible option of all. With hands that weren't quite as steady as she'd have wished, Holly thrust away the fur throw and, tucking the shawl around her shoulders, walked towards the door – as a precaution, taking the poker with her.

Holding the poker ready, though not in immediate view, she gripped the thumb-turn, took a deep, slightly quivery breath, and jerked the door open.

The clouds had cleared. Hard, clear moonlight flooded the garden and the dale beyond it, and the cold bit at her throat.

There was no-one there.

But the snow from the front gate, that should have been pristine, showed the churned track of a single set of footprints. They walked toward the door and then suddenly swerved aside, going around the side of the cottage.

Gathering her courage, Holly pushed her feet into her Wellingtons, stepped out into the snow and followed them.

They led to the lean-to woodshed. It had been well stacked against the winter, but by now there was space at one side of it, and the brilliant white light from above showed her a figure huddled there, tucked in as far as he could go into what little shelter it offered.

He must have heard the sound of her footfalls crunching the snow, but he did not move or look up. She was knifed by pity. What must it be like to be homeless, in weather like this?

"Please." She crouched down, though prudently out of reach of a sudden grab. "You can't stay here. You'll freeze to death in half an hour. Let me help you."

"I'm past helping."

The low voice shocked her so much she almost tumbled over backwards. _"Mal!"_

Dropping the poker into the snow, she dived forward and grabbed him. He was wearing a thick parka, its hood fur-lined, but it was soaked through and icy cold. His jeans were even colder. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, but even through the coat she could feel the great convulsive shudders that shook him.

"Come out of there _this minute!_ " She gave him no chance to refuse, though the utter gracelessness of his movements as he scrambled and stumbled half-upright in her grasp said it was unlikely he had the strength to resist. Towing him by a fold of his sodden parka, she dragged him into the house. He almost fell across the threshold. "Get out of those clothes right now, Malcolm Reed!" she commanded, slamming the door behind them. _"All of them!"_

"C-c-can't w-wait to get me n-n-naked, eh?" he whispered, with the ghost of an awful grin.

"Not there! _Here!"_ She propelled him to the hearthrug, where Dickon had stopped yowling but was now staring at him in alarm, and skipped rapidly out of range of the snow that slid from his shoulders.

He tried to comply, but he was too frozen to co-ordinate the movements of his hands and arms. With swift, furious movements Holly started doing the job herself, throwing the saturated garments anyhow towards the kitchen. He endured the process, his teeth clamped to stop their chattering.

As soon as the last sopping sock was off, she fetched two warm bath-sheets from the bathroom and wrapped one of them around his lower half while with the other she started ferociously towelling the top half. Once again he endured in silence, until the ghost-white pallor of his skin slowly began to glow pink with the friction and the heat of the fire, and his hair stood in wild dark tangles. Still the shudders of deep cold racked him, and the hands that clutched the towel around himself were numb white claws.

She threw the first towel aside, picked up her discarded fur throw and wrapped it around his shoulders and torso. Then, she snatched away the lower towel and began scrubbing the rest of him, completely disregarding any absurd notions of modesty he might have or the occasional grunt of discomfort as she pummelled feeling back into his half-frozen muscles.

Not until she was certain there wasn't a single centimetre of his skin left that was cold or damp did she drag her armchair around to face the fire more squarely and force him down into the midst of the cushions. "You! Stay! There!" she ordered, fixing him with a look that should have frozen him to the marrow.

He glared at her. He wasn't tame, he was just choosing to obey. The wildness in his eyes frightened her, but she glared right back at him until he wrenched his gaze away and fixed it on the fire.

Pausing only to pet Dickon (who was hiding under the table), she picked up the wet clothes and marched into the mud/plant room off the kitchen, where she dumped them unceremoniously in the sink to let the worst of the wet drain from them. Then she returned to the kitchen, where she put a saucepan onto the range and upended a bottle over it – one of a store whose contents contained the garnering of the long summer. As it slowly warmed, it released a wonderful spicy fragrance, strong and rich.

From a cupboard under the sink she pulled out a fur-covered hot water bottle. She filled it from the tap and put it to one side, and then filled a plastic bowl. She was half way across the lounge with the latter when she saw the flash of fear in his face, and she paused, raising an ironic eyebrow that said he surely didn't think _she_ was going to push his face into it and hold him down?

Of course, he didn't. He managed a slightly shamefaced grin. Still, as he leaned back in the chair the hand that wasn't clutching the fur throw tightly around his chest rested on the arm of the chair, and was lightly clenched.

Understanding that residual tension, which was beyond his conscious control, she smiled at him to let him know everything was OK between them, as it always was. Quietly and matter-of-factly, she slipped to one knee on the hearthrug in front of him and set the bowl down. Then she slipped a hand gently around each of his ankles. "Trust me," she said. "This will feel like it's boiling, but it isn't."

He allowed her to lift his feet and dip them very slowly into the warm water, disregarding his hiss of discomfort as the heat penetrated. When they were settled side by side she walked into her bedroom and pulled the duvet off the bed and draped it over him, the hot water bottle in its folds; he was still shivering intermittently, though, and it would probably take a while for the warmth to reach the deeper regions of his chilled body.

In the kitchen, the drink was now steaming hot and she emptied it into an earthenware cup and took it to him. "Drink it, Mal," she told him quietly as he hesitated fractionally, his eyes on the cup. "It's just some of my spiced wine. It'll help warm you up from the inside."

He'd drunk it before, many times, a welcome winter drink on a cold evening. Nodding, he reached out and took it with a word of thanks and a look of apology. It was probably uncomfortably hot for his mouth by now, but he sipped at it obediently, wrapping both hands around it to warm his fingers.

The kitchen timer had gone off while she was getting his feet into the water bowl, so as soon as she saw him finally relaxing she slipped out again and filled two bowls with the casserole, putting each on a tray with a generous chunk of homemade bread spread with new butter.

"I think you need to eat and then sleep, love," she said, bringing a tray in and placing it carefully on the coffee table at his elbow where her book had lain. "Are you feeling better now?"

He nodded again. Maybe the familiar taste of her special mulled wine, with the very specific additions she never revealed, had brought back happy memories. "'Lot warmer, thanks," he mumbled, a look of shame coming into his face.

"Then this will help you sleep." She took the cup from him and set it on the mantelpiece before pushing the bowl down into the duvet on his lap to create a nest to hold it steady. "You don't have to eat it all if you don't want to."

He was still a little clumsy about gripping the spoon, but he managed it. Although at first he ate slowly and with apparent reluctance, he soon got the taste and began wolfing it down. Soon the last drop of soup in the bottom of the bowl was being wiped up with the hunk of bread and butter, and he sat back with a sigh.

"Wait there and I'll get you something to wear." Not without a fleeting smile, she hurried into her bedroom, where she pulled out a Fair Isle patterned 'onesie' from a cupboard – something she wore when she'd had a shower and couldn't be bothered to dress again before bed.

For a moment she knew he was bordering on rebellion when he realised what she was expecting him to wear. But in the event he was too exhausted to argue. He allowed her to help him into it and run up the zip, and then stumbled blindly after her into the hall. He usually used one of the beds in the spare room when he visited, but something told her that tonight he desperately needed the comfort of company, and she steered him gently towards her own. It wouldn't be the first time they'd shared it, after all.

"In you get, love," she told him, turning back the duvet. "I'll just lock up and I'll be with you in a minute. And I'll promise not to ravish you in the night."

The tired flutter of a smile touched his mouth as he got in. There had been times when they'd thought that might happen between them, but despite their efforts their bodies had known better. Sex would have been an unnecessary complication to the deep intimacy between them, and they'd both been more comfortable with each other when they finally accepted that.

He looked so cute and so absurd in her fluffy blue onesie, snuggled up in her pink and white floral duvet, it was all she could do not to laugh aloud. But even this irresistible humour couldn't quell the deep trouble in her heart. What the hell had he been doing, struggling alone in the snow all the way from the train station? Why hadn't he called? What deep and desperate pain was he feeling, to drive him to run for sanctuary here where he was always certain of finding it?

She left him there and locked the cottage down for the night, for once leaving the washing-up for the next morning. It was earlier than she usually went to bed, but an early night wouldn't kill her, even if she fell asleep straight away – which she suspected would not be the case tonight.

Dickon had ventured back to the hearthrug, and stared up at her worriedly.

"No, it's not good, is it?" She stroked his head. "Thank God you heard him out there, sweetheart, because otherwise I think he'd be dead by now."

The thought made her shudder. The _gwynt traed yr meirw_ moaned in the chimney as though the dead were lamenting one snatched from among their number.

Holly gathered herself together with an effort. "But you did hear him, and we're going to find out what's wrong, and we're going to put it right if we can."

Half way back to the bedroom door, a thought occurred to her. She looked back at Dickon as though he might have the answer, but of course he wouldn't. Though as cats often do, he looked as though he knew more about what was what than she did.

The bedroom was dim and quiet, its only illumination the tiffany bedside lamp. She undressed quickly, donned her warm nightdress and slid in beside him. She'd thought he might have fallen asleep while he waited – the exhaustion was printed on his face – but it seemed not.

It was a fifty-fifty call whether he'd want the light left on or not. After a momentary hesitation, she switched it off.

Ordinarily, this would have plunged the room into deep darkness, but the moonlight on the snow outside cast a faint, reflected upward radiance through the window. It was enough to show her the shine of his eyes watching her as she snuggled down beside him.

Normally, on the rare occasion when they shared a bed these days, they cuddled up as unselfconsciously as children. Tonight, however, she had to wait for him to make the first move; and, uncharacteristically, he was slow to do so. But after a couple of minutes he put out an arm and laid it almost hesitantly across her side, so that his hand rested lightly on her back.

"You can do better than that, Mal."

He moved slowly, almost as though still half-frozen with cold, though as he almost crept to within holding distance the body she slipped her arms around was warm enough now. Even his feet had thawed out.

He didn't attempt to kiss her. His face nestled slowly into the side of her neck, and after a moment she began to stroke his hair, gently and rhythmically. "I'm here for you, love," she said quietly. "Whatever's wrong, I'm here for you."


	3. Chapter 3: Holly

There was a long silence. So long, in fact, that she began to wonder if he had fallen asleep, as worn out as he must be; but presently he spoke, if only on half a breath.

"I'm so totally fucked up."

The rhythm of her stroking didn't change. "Tell me about it."

Another long silence. Then he lifted his head again and laid it back on the pillow opposite hers. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light now, and she could make out the puzzled sorrow in his face. "How do you get to be good at relationships, Holly?"

 _Ah._ "Well, I'm probably not the best person to ask." Her tone was ruefully humorous. They both knew that there _had_ been a Someone, back in the day, but that ultimately ... well, it was all a bit complicated, and best not talked of; and so there was the cottage, and Dickon, and her garden, and her secret and sometimes dangerous work.

"But if there was someone – someone different from all the others – what would you _do?_ " he persisted.

Holly considered. "I suppose that would depend on how I felt about him."

His hand slipped up to cup, almost grip, her jaw. "If I asked you if you loved me, what would you say?"

"Of course I love you," she answered serenely. "If you mean 'am I in love with you', I'd say 'as much as you are with me', which is to say, not in the least."

He began to kiss her. Although it was with passion, she felt that it was not her response he needed, but to understand himself. His proximity, even his weight as he leaned half across her, did not threaten her. She returned his kiss with love, even with humour, but she knew that he would not find in her what he was seeking.

After a while, the passion died and he drew back. He looked a little baffled, a little resigned, and even faintly amused. "I hoped you might have... answers."

"I think we both found the answer to that question a long time ago, love." She stroked his cheek. "There's no point in telling lies when what you need is the truth."

"Ah! The truth! That mystical concept, rarer than the unicorn and about as hard to capture!" He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "What is truth, and how do we separate it from wishful thinking? Is it immutable, or will it fall away like everything else? How do you _know?"_

It was becoming clearer to her by the moment that his crisis, whatever it actually consisted of, was of a romantic nature. There was one question above all that she longed to ask, but that wasn't in the bargain, and she held her tongue, albeit with some difficulty.

"I think you're pushing it when you're asking me for a definition of truth," she said at last, a little tongue-in-cheek. "But if you define what sort of truth you're talking about, then maybe I might be able to give you some ideas."

There was another long pause.

"If someone ... if someone says they love you, how do you know it ... how do you know what _you_ feel for _them_ , whether it's the same thing, or whether ... whether putting labels on something doesn't just make it too complicated."

She considered, running her fingers lightly across his chest. "I think that if you love someone, or they love you, things are _never_ simple. If people were simple, relationships would be simple – and one thing you most definitely are not, Mal, is 'simple'."

"Sometimes I wish I was," he said in a constricted voice.

"Hey." Instinctively she knew he was going back into his past, into the things he'd done and had done to him that had robbed him of every possibility of simplicity. Some of them had forged his nature as burning heat will forge steel, and some of them had warped him, but still the core of him rang true. It was not only each other's bodies and hearts they knew intimately.

He moved restlessly. The darkness and quiet of the tiny cottage had often been his confessional. "But what if they knew – if they knew the truth..."

"If they were worthy of you, love, if they knew the things that matter about who you are, then they'd love you just the same." Holly kissed the side of his mouth gently.

"But who I was – who I still could be, if the need was there – is that worthy of a good–" He stopped abruptly, and then went on in a lower voice, "of a _good_ man's regard? Of what he – he says he loves me..."

"Then I suppose he means what he says." She shut her mouth before the words 'He's not the sort of man who says anything he doesn't mean' could escape. It was entirely likely that Malcolm suspected she'd know who it was who claimed to be in love with him; after all, the seed of their friendship had germinated in this cottage, watered and warmed by her love for them both. But to force the issue before he was ready to state the fact explicitly was demeaning to his dignity, which he valued, even though his state of bewilderment over his new status was absurdly endearing. And besides – though it was unlikely – she might be wrong.

"He doesn't _know_ me, Holly. How can he possibly love me?"

"He must know you well enough to have developed feelings for you, Mal. I wish you could believe in yourself the way other people believe in you."

In the half-light she saw him level an imaginary phase-pistol at the gold-embossed _Blanc Sanglier_ in its frame on the wall. He squinted along his arm and squeezed off a shot. "If love was as simple as shooting, the boar's bacon," he replied irreverently, twirling the make-believe weapon like a gunslinger, in a way he would certainly never do with the real thing. "Unfortunately for me, in the current situation my sights are off and my barrel's as crooked as a cow's back leg."

His tone struggled for jocularity, but from her he could not conceal the real pain in it. She put her hand on his arm and squeezed. "Mal, what made you come here tonight?"

This time she thought he wasn't going to answer at all.

But finally, out of the utter stillness, he spoke flatly. "I've been visiting a specialist steelmaker's in Cardiff. He..." He sighed. "Jay drove over to meet me. We went to a hotel I know and we had the most amazing sex. He's a bloody brilliant lover, Holly..." He glanced at her a little uncomfortably, clearly wondering if he'd been too frank. "We've been lovers for a while now, but I thought that was all it was, all he wanted from me ... and then after we'd finished he said he loved me.

"Bloody hell." He sighed again. "You could have knocked me down with a kipper. I had no idea. _Enterprise_ 's top-of-the-range Tactical Officer, knocked flat on his arse by three words he didn't see coming."

"Mal. JJ would _not_ come to a conclusion about something like that without a heck of a lot of thought. I don't think I've ever heard him mention being in love before." She hesitated. "So ... what did you do?"

A short laugh. "The only thing I could think of to do. Avoided answering, and pretended to go to sleep."

"And panicked," she said ruefully.

"I couldn't have panicked more thoroughly if pineapple had been declared an endangered species."

She laughed, of course, but she heard the sorrow behind the clowning.

"I didn't know where else to go." He turned his head and looked at her. "You always seem able to make me feel better about myself. But when I got here, it just fell on me what a complete fucking idiot I'd been. I didn't ... I'd walked all the way from Redmire and I couldn't make myself come the last three feet to the door."

"So you thought you'd just sit in my woodshed for a couple of hours and freeze to death instead." Her fingers in his hair gripped hard enough to hurt. "Thank God, Dickon knew you were there... Oh, _Mal!"_

"I'm sorry." Another glance. "For what it's worth, I still was trying to think up some way to confess without making myself look a complete prat, not that there was one of course. I didn't intend to _stay_ there. But what I didn't intend to do and what I probably would have done if you hadn't come to the rescue, might be two completely different things."

He was probably right about that. Outside, the moon shone down on a world where the clear skies had now let the temperatures plummet well below zero. Shuddering at the thought of him frozen stiff out there among the chopped-up logs, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and shook him to drive the point home as she growled, "If you ever, if you _ever_ pull a stupid stunt like that again, I'll... I'll..."

"Leave me there?" He was genuinely contrite, but the suggestion came with puppy-dog eyes. JJ would have forgiven him on the spot, or maybe he'd have just punched his lights out for being an ass in the first place.

Nevertheless, the words were followed almost immediately by a cavernous yawn. If he'd come by public transport from South Wales and walked through the snow for the last few miles, he must be absolutely shattered.

"Holly, what am I going to do?" he mumbled, turning to face her and pulling the quilt tighter about his shoulders – as much a psychological indicator as a physical one, she thought. "I thought ... I thought things were OK, that I was handling it better than – than I've done before.

"I've always been useless with relationships. You know I have. Just lately–" a bitter, self-deprecating shrug– "I preferred it that way. I _wanted_ it that way. When it's just no-strings sex, nobody gets to know the real me."

"But JJ wanted the real you," she said softly.

"He doesn't even _know_ the real me!" The despair was tangible. "He doesn't know the man you know. He doesn't know what I've done, what I've been ... what I _am_ , in the places where you can't undo anything, no matter how hard you wish you could."

She felt the gut-deep sigh go out of him, and thought back to all the times he'd been here – sometimes terrible times, towards the end, when he'd been so badly broken inside he'd been almost beyond healing. At last, very quietly, she said, "I think one thing we haven't covered is what _you_ feel about _him_."

The silence was so long she thought he'd fallen asleep. Finally, and in the faintest of whispers, "I tried not to care. I tried to think he was just another fuck. But god help me, I couldn't.

"I ... care about him, Holly. I care what he thinks about me. And I think of telling him, think of him finding out and I ... I can't bear the thought of him turning away from me."

The snowlight found the faintest rim of reflection beneath his lowered lashes. Without a word, she put out a hand and found his, which gripped tightly for a second and then released, remorseful of the pressure that had elicited an indrawn breath, for all her resolution. "You always hurt the one you love," he breathed. "You see? I'm a destroyer, Holly. Even when I don't mean to, I destroy people. That's what made me so good at my job in the Section. They said I was a natural."

She was familiar with the necessity to swallow impotent rage. Nevertheless, for all her experience it still took a moment to choke it down so that she could speak calmly. With her other hand she clasped the side of his face, and even shook it slightly as she spaced out every word. "Mal. You are a wonderful man who went to hell and came back again. I know exactly who you are and I love you. I know what you did and I love you. I know what you _were_ and I love you. Ex-Section Operative Jaguar, you are a special person who deserves to be loved by another special person, and I couldn't think of anyone else other than JJ I wouldn't grudge you to."

For a long moment he looked deep into her eyes, and then the smallest smile touched his mouth. "Every time I come here I remember why I love you so much."

"It's because I make your favourite food."

"Well, there had to be some reason."

"And the _other_ reason is that I tell you when it's time for you to get some sleep." She slid up a hand to ruffle his hair, breaking the moment. "And you're exhausted. Snuggle up, love, and let's get some sleep. Things will be better in the morning."

She'd been right about his physical state – she was always right about Mal. He was so worn out he didn't even have the strength left to argue about her optimistic forecast for the morrow. She slept on her right side, so dropping a last, firm kiss on the tip of his nose she turned over, and felt him snuggle obediently up behind her and slip an arm chastely around her waist. He laid his head so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck; at a guess, he found the familiar smell of her hair comforting enough to put up with the tickle of it on his face.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he murmured.

"G'night, Mal."


	4. Chapter 4: Holly

Normally, Malcolm was an early-bird. Holly knew from experience that most times he was awake before the alarm clock went off, and frequently up and making breakfast. However, as she surfaced from sleep the next morning – some five minutes before the alarm was set to wake her – she realised he was still sound asleep beside her.

She switched off the alarm clock, to forestall it going off and waking him, and looked over her shoulder. At which point she couldn't prevent a huge grin from breaking out on her face.

He still looked adorably absurd in her fluffy onesie. Fortunately he probably hadn't caught sight of himself in a mirror the night before, because he'd have called her every name under the sun for making him wear it – although he claimed to have relatively little personal vanity, he had very definite standards about what a Reed should or should not wear, and a fluffy blue onesie would undoubtedly now be placed at the very top of the latter. He should actually think himself lucky – she'd originally hesitated over whether to get one with a hood and lamb's ears, and the thought of him waking to find himself wearing that was so hilarious she had to put a hand over her mouth to stop the splutter.

Always a light sleeper, it was too much to hope for that he'd fail to notice her slipping out of bed, though she did her best to do so stealthily. His eyes flicked open, grey as the clouds in the dawn-light outside the window.

"Hush," she told him, with a kiss on his forehead. "Go to the bathroom if you need to, love, then get back into bed. I'm making breakfast this morning." She frowned him into obedience and then slid her feet into her slippers and padded through the tiny hall into the lounge.

Which was not empty.

JJ was sitting on the sofa, Dickon purring on his lap. As she entered the room, he looked up, his hand stilled on the cat's back and a look of unbearable apprehension on his face.

Fortunately she'd just closed the door into the hall, so Malcolm probably wouldn't hear her small squeak of surprise. The surprise morphed immediately into delight, however, and she flew across the room to hug her cousin, regardless for once of Dickon's indignation as JJ stood up and he was dumped gently on to the floor. "Yes, love, he's here. Of course he's here."

"I'm going to kick his sorry ass for scaring me like that," he said softly, holding her in a rib-crushing grip. "He switched his cellphone off – I didn't know what the hell he'd done, where he'd gone..." He looked away. "I checked out the guest bedroom, and he wasn't there. I've just been sitting here, praying..."

"He was in a bad way when he got here." She looked up at him seriously. "He needed to talk. I don't think he could think of anywhere else to go.

"JJ, this is between the two of you and I'm not going to interfere. But I'll give you one piece of advice: remember that old saying of Epictetus' – 'we were given two ears and one mouth, and therefore we should listen twice as much as we talk'."

He gave her a hollow smile. "So I'll listen to him _after_ I've kicked his ass."

"You'll listen to him when you take him breakfast." She turned away to the kitchen.

He followed her, and helped with the washing-up that had been left from yesterday. Neither of them spoke, but it was a comfortable silence; Dickon went to the back door, took a couple of horrified leaps into the snow, and hurried back in again as soon as he'd left a melting yellow stain beside the shrivelled last-year's stems of the fuchsia bush.

When all the plates and cutlery and kitchenware were dried and tidied away, she started on breakfast, once again with his help. In no time at all she had a tray ready, with two bowls of warm porridge heaped with raspberries and honey; a stack of hot buttered toast and two steaming mugs of tea completed the array.

"You do realize I only drink this stuff for you." He nodded down at the tea as he picked up the tray.

"And you know I only make it because you do." She smiled up at him. "It seems to be getting a habit with me to have exhausted men turn up on my doorstep. As soon as you've settled things with Mal, the first thing you need to do is get some sleep. You must have travelled all night."

"All night and most of yesterday afternoon. Whole country seems to have been just paralyzed by the snow. Don't you have it here that often or something?"

"Oh yes," she answered sunnily. "Most winters. But we never get _used_ to it. There's something quintessentially British about our transport infrastructure never being quite prepared for fallen leaves in autumn or snow in winter."

He shook his head, probably at the peculiarity of the British psyche. Then, with a visible straightening of his shoulders, he walked towards the door into the hall.

She opened it for him, and turned the handle to the master-bedroom to let him walk through. Then she closed the door behind him and walked briskly to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower, shed her nightdress and stepped under the water, where she began washing her hair, singing as loudly as she could.


	5. Chapter 5: Jay

Something must have warned him.

When the door opened, Malcolm was lying in Holly's bed, not asleep but probably not really awake, looking out towards the window with its view of a snow-shrouded Pen Hill. He was wearing some fluffy light blue all-in-one thing that – at a guess – was Holly's; certainly Jay couldn't imagine it being his own.

Considering that the second before he'd probably been drowsing, his reactions were quicker than a cat. He flung himself around in the bed, kicking the quilt away; his whole demeanor showed he was braced for an attack.

"It's just breakfast," said Jay mildly, showing him the tray. "You left in too much of a hurry to catch any yesterday."

Color rushed into Malcolm's cheeks. "It seemed like the best thing to do at the time," he answered after a moment, very warily.

"I can understand why you might think so." He set the tray down briefly on the dressing-table, carefully pushing aside the cut-crystal vase with a posy of Christmas roses in it. "Personally, though, I think talking the thing over before you left might have been more – courteous."

"It wasn't about bloody _courtesy._ "

"I gathered that." He picked up one of the bowls of porridge, walked across and placed it on the nightstand, suffocating the urge to throw it at his lover's head after the scare he'd had. "Eat this while it's warm, or Holly will kick your ass." He glanced at the unmistakably feminine one-piece. "I hate to mention it, Mal, but it doesn't suit you," he said drily.

"After– after– bloody hell, are we reduced to talking about fucking _porridge_ now?"

"No, we're reduced to _eating_ fucking porridge, because Holly was good enough to make it for us. And after that we're going to have the talk we should have had yesterday morning, and I swear to god if you try to run out on me again I'll break both your damned legs." This was said with absolute calm, but its effect was far from placating; Malcolm glared at him.

"I'd like to see you try!"

"It can be arranged. Believe me." He returned to the tray, picked up a spoon and tossed it over. "That might come in useful."

Ignoring the predictable suggestion of where he might like to stick his bloody spoon, he sat down in the chair by the dressing table and began to eat his own porridge. Like the tea, it wasn't something he ever ate except when he was here, but there was no doubt that it was delicious; the tartness of the raspberries countered the sweetness of the honey, and the porridge itself was filling and warming. Although he didn't look in that direction, he was aware that Malcolm had subsided back down into the duvet and, after glowering for a moment, had also started to eat his breakfast. At least he hadn't used it as a missile, which had always been a possibility.

"Toast?" he asked mildly, hearing the spoon scrape up the last of the milky lees.

"Thanks." It was growled, but it seemed to be meant as some kind of a peace-offering, and he accepted it as such. There were two smaller plates under the one loaded with toast; he pulled one out and placed two slices on it. There didn't seem to be anything by way of preserves, so he suspected Mal didn't care much for jam any more than he did himself.

Once again he carried the food to the bed, but this time he didn't set it down on the nightstand and retreat. Instead, he set his free hand lightly on the curve of Malcolm's neck, and left it there for a moment.

The Englishman froze, his gaze fixed on the window.

"In some ways I've wished ever since that I hadn't said anything," Jay said quietly. "In others, I think it needed to be said." He went back to his chair, sat down and ate a piece of toast, and drank half of his mug of tea before he continued. "I've always valued honesty more than anything else, in any kind of relationship. If I'd gone on saying nothing, not telling you how I felt about you – it would have been a lie. A lie of omission, but still a lie. And I don't know how you feel about it, but to me, what we have is worth more than that. So much more."

"It was easier before," Malcolm said in a strained voice, looking down into what remained of his own tea, which he'd hardly touched even though he'd been staring into it for the last five minutes.

"I'm sure it was. But I did tell you that I wasn't expecting anything from you in return."

A snort. "A statement like that's a bit like dumping a phase rifle on the table during a casual conversation and saying 'Oh, just ignore that, it doesn't matter really.'"

"I'm not saying it didn't _matter_ ," Jay replied patiently. "You think I go around telling someone I love them just to make goddamn conversation? I said it because it was true. I do love you."

Holly had been exceptionally wise in pouring their tea into stout earthenware mugs rather than the pretty floral ones she also owned, because next moment Malcolm's slammed back onto the nightstand so hard that it was a minor miracle it didn't break in half. _"Don't say that!"_

"Why? Because it scares you?"

 _"BECAUSE IT'S NOT FUCKING TRUE!"_ he screamed. With shaking hands he began stripping off the one-piece. " _This_ is what you're in love with," he snarled, flinging it across the room; Jay caught it in reflex. "The outside. The manufactured product!"

With an effort Jay kept his attention from the sculpted, naked body now revealed in the pearly snow-light through the window. A crazy quip that he'd never before been accused of harboring feelings for an item of fluffy nightwear before popped into his head, but he left it unuttered; of all the ways he could react to this situation, making a joke would be the very worst.

"I think to some extent we're all products … of our upbringing, our environment…" he started cautiously.

"What the _fuck_ , you think I'm trying to give you a _psychology lesson_?" Malcolm dropped his head into his hands and took several heaving breaths. "OK. OK. You want to know…."

With a sound that was midway between a gasp and a whimper, he straightened up. The movement of his in-crooked fingers down his face as he did so was unnervingly suggestive of someone tearing off a mask, and indeed the man who now stared back across the room at Jay seemed – by some uncanny alchemy – to be a stranger wearing Malcolm Reed's face.

"You checked my history of course," this stranger said, leaning back against the pillows with a lazy grin that was utterly without humor. "You didn't find anything. I know you didn't. Even Captain Archer doesn't know about me." His right hand described a graceful arc, encompassing himself. "Meet Covert Operations Agent Jaguar – one of Section 31's finest. Saboteur, assassin and whore on demand!"

"Holly told me a while ago you used to work in Covert Ops." Jay's voice was very quiet. "She swore me to secrecy and told me that was how you two met. But Section 31? I thought it would have been MI6 or something like that."

The grin became feral. "Oh come now, Major, let's not be shy; MI6 is the _respectable_ end of the business. Rather too good for the likes of me. No, Section 31 it was, Starfleet's Dirty Tricks Brigade. Run by quiet men in back rooms who smooth bumpy roads for the wheels of progress to travel along up in the sunshine. Men who hire the experts who'll get things done, things that _need_ to be done, things that the 'good people' have the luxury of holding their hands up in horror at. Men who turn the needs of the many into the sins of the few."

He laughed, a splintered, joyless sound. His eyes were frozen chips of glee and anguish. "Give me my orders, Major, and I'll carry them out, yes sir, no questions asked!

"Want someone murdered? They're dead – men, women, children, pet dogs, goldfish and all, fuck it, doesn't matter, they're dead. Want someone's darling daughter fucked on film? I'll give you multiple orgasms and a dozen copies of the recording. Want a diplomat taken out? Order the funeral. Want a building destroyed? Just give me the postcode. Want a computer system with twenty layers of encryption hacked into? All part of the service.

"That's how I came to meet Holly. That's part of her job: reassembling people when they fall apart. Healing the destroyers. Putting them back together again – in some kind of working order, so they can go back to the job.

"But don't you _dare_ condemn her for that!" he spat, pointing a warning finger. "Don't you even fucking _think_ about it!"

"My only concern as regards Holly would be for her safety," said Jay levelly. "But I'm sure she's already aware of the risks inherent in work like that."

Internally he was appalled by the transformation from the quiet, self-controlled Englishman who was the Tactical Officer aboard _Enterprise_. Still, he made himself hold the glittering gaze without flinching.

"Still think you love me now, do you?" Jaguar jeered into the silence.

Without answering, Jay stood up and walked to the window, where he stood looking out. The dale was blanketed in white, a monochrome world of cold. The only speck of brightness was in the garden of a distant farmhouse, where some optimist had hung out a yellow towel, presumably hoping it might dry before the snow came; it hung as stiff as cardboard, each peg doubtless topped by a tiny crown of white.

Holly had put out stuff for the birds on the covered table in the garden below. A few early risers were already in attendance. They were British birds, so he didn't know what they were, except for a robin that flew away to scold in the skeletal apple tree with its burden of mistletoe. A couple of brilliantly blue and yellow little guys swung and argued on balls of fat and seeds, whirring to and fro indignantly; he seemed to remember Holly calling them bluetits.

Just then, a shower of snow shaken from the rose-arch over the garden gate caught his eye. Right at the top a small falcon had landed. It scrambled for balance as the bare stem it had landed on gave beneath its weight, speckled wings half-outspread, its curved beak open.

A predator, alone in a world without mercy.

The small birds fled from the bird table. The falcon shifted on the stem and then took off again, arrowing off across the lane and over the field beyond, hungry and deadly.

Sometimes, when you have too much to feel, the mind disconnects. When he came back to himself, Malcolm was out of the bed and getting dressed. He'd donned a pair of tracksuit bottoms and was now putting on his socks, his movements silent and economical. He didn't look up.

 _Healing the destroyers. Putting them back together again._

Malcolm had done what he'd been ordered to do, become the person he'd had to be in order to carry out acts he despised. And the process had broken him apart – proof indisputable that at heart he was an honorable man plunged into a world without honor, where he'd done what he must to survive. Jay crossed the room with long strides, pulled him to his feet and threw his arms around him.

The body against his was rigid, resisting. "For god's sake, don't–" Malcolm's voice cracked. "Don't love me out of pity, don't–"

 _"Shut the fuck up!"_ With a single shove he threw him back onto the bed, following him down. And there he went on to prove that what was between them was still strong, still real, still passionate, fighting down the resistance until it crumbled into joy.


	6. Chapter 6: Holly

Holly had had a quiet, productive morning.

She'd made raisin and cinnamon scones and Eve's pudding and carrot and pineapple cake. A dish of rice pudding was baking slowly in the bottom of the Aga, with a joint of beef on the shelf above. A tray of oil occupied the top shelf, heating up for the roast potatoes.

She was just separating the cauliflower florets when the door from the hall opened and Jay came in, carrying a heap of bedclothes which he calmly put into the washing machine. Without a word or a glance in her direction, he loaded it with powder and softener and switched it on. From the hall came the sound of the bathroom door closing, followed by the distant squeal of the shower curtain rings on the track above the tub.

"There are dressing gowns on the back of the door in your room," she said cheerfully, filling a saucepan with cold water. "Take one in for Mal when he's finished. There's time for both of you to wash and change, but you can set the table while you're waiting, if you wouldn't mind."

"May I ask you a question?" he asked, squatting to pick out one of the neatly-folded white damask tablecloths from the bottom cupboard of the Welsh dresser where they were always kept.

"Of course you can, love. Ask me whatever you like." She tilted the chopping board neatly so the florets slid into the water. "I'm not guaranteeing to answer, though. You know that."

He glanced up at her. "If I hadn't come up here – would you have gotten in touch with me to tell me Mal was here?"

For a moment she frowned out of the window behind the sink, seeing and not seeing the white tracery of snow on the dark tree trunks beyond the wall. "No," she said at last. "I would have wanted to, of course, but don't you see, that would have been interfering. When I found out what had happened, I hoped you'd come, I _believed_ you'd come – but one of the things that was hardest for me to learn in my job is that ultimately, people have to heal themselves."

"Mal says you healed him after– when he needed it."

"That's not _quite_ how it works. More accurately, I provided the environment for him to find healing in. But minds are like bones – they have to heal from within. You can manipulate a broken bone, you can pin it in place, you can splint it and do whatever you like, but ultimately, the bone heals itself. Or doesn't."

He brought out the tablecloth, and threw it over the small table in its alcove which she'd cleared ready. The crystal candelabrum was on the windowsill, and he placed it in the middle of the table with military precision.

He continued the rest of the operation in thoughtful silence. Finally, he leaned on the back of a chair and stared across at her. "Holly, do you think Mal is healed?"

She returned his gaze equally pensively for a moment before her eyes softened and she touched his arm, the lightest of caresses. "Sweetie, what difference would that information make to you, truly?"

"None at all."

The potatoes were ready to go in for roasting. She took out the hot fat, dropped the potatoes in carefully and turned them to coat all their surfaces. Only when the oven door was closed again did she reply. "With that kind of damage, I'm not sure anyone can ever be described as 'healed', not fully. He's come a long way, but mending wounds as deep as his is a very long process. So long it may take the rest of his lifetime – and never be fully completed.

"May I ask why you want to know?"

"Because I want to understand how to provide the best support for him that I possibly can. I want you to give me all the help I need, as much as you can. I want to be there for him when you can't be."

The door to the hall opened at that moment. Malcolm padded in, barefoot, with only a bath-sheet wrapped around himself, and with an absolute lack of artifice or self-consciousness crossed to Jay and slipped an arm around his shoulders, burying his face in the side of his neck. Regardless of the damp, Jay slipped an arm of his own around him in response, and with a downward look of deep tenderness, cupped his free hand gently around his lover's face.

Holly enjoyed the sight for a moment longer, feeling honoured that they shared this most private moment with her freely and willingly, and then turned away to look out across the garden, though her heart was overflowing with joy for them and the scene was one she would treasure forever.

She'd spoken the truth: it was unlikely that Malcolm would ever fully and completely recover from what had been done to him. She had helped him in his hours of direst need, and in that lay the roots of a friendship that had endured ever since; but she had always known that there was a deep, wounded place inside him where even her love could not reach. Now, she could hope that finally he had found someone who was strong enough to discover that place and accept it, and thereby one day perhaps – just perhaps – bring about that impossible redemption.

The clouds were breaking, out across the dale. A finger of cold, clear sunshine pried through a rent in the grey and laid a stripe of pale gold across the snowy moors high above; a circling buzzard passed through it briefly and soared away towards Nappa Scar. Even as she watched, a second buzzard lifted from the pinewoods and flew in pursuit. Maybe, come the spring, she would sit and watch their courtship flights, high in the clear air.

 **The End.**


End file.
